


You Say a Thing to Make it True

by musiclily88



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Anger, Angry Sex, Angst, Bottom Ron, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex, Roughness, Top Draco Malfoy, Weirdness, alternate canon a bit, porn without real plot to be honest, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 17:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7723561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One does</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Say a Thing to Make it True

It’s nearly half-three and Draco feels dead on his feet of a random Wednesday. Sixth year is treating him just as poorly as the rest of his time at this godforsaken school of magical misery. His calculations aren’t sorting out right and nothing is going according to plan and he’s had a roiling grey-acid feeling in his gut for months, which is absolutely nothing compared to the fire-hot brand on his forearm. 

That thing, that mark, that’s the thing he’s been trying to deny the existence of since the initial moment the black ink bloomed across his skin. He knew he would regret it, and he does regret it, and he will regret it until the moment he dies; all of his moments until then will be spent desperately trying to keep his friends and family from—nothingness.

Draco thinks maybe that nothingness would be nice. Anything would be nice compared to all of this.

He’s exhausted, and he’s distracted, and that’s why he doesn’t feel the curious gaze aimed at the back of his head as he sneaks back into the Slytherin common room.

 

++

Draco has no idea how to handle sunshine during his best moments, and for once he’s grateful that his machinations keep him away from the bleak Scottish spring. The Come-and-Go Room offers him most of the things he needs, except for a reprieve from the emotional strain of every single one of his responsibilities. He doesn’t think the Come-and-Go room will kill someone for him, or help him get Death Eaters past the protective wards of Hogwarts. Sometimes Draco marvels that those—people, those monsters, literal and figurative and everything else, once attended this school.

But then he’s reminded of his own misery, and, to an extent, he can.

+++

He doesn’t attend Quidditch matches anymore, doesn’t give one thought to house loyalty or rivalry or to eating meals or to sleeping more than three hours a night. He’s tuned out Pansy’s concerned speeches, murmured in undertone when she can manage to corner him. He tries not to miss Vince and Greg flanking him, but even they somehow _emote_ too much lately, offering protective presences that he just can’t stomach. Blaise and Theo have basically fucked right off, are living in one another’s pockets lately, too insular to acknowledge the things that Draco actually prefers they don’t acknowledge.

He doesn’t do much besides remain distracted and anxious and stomach-boilingly terrified of death.

 

Which is presumably the reason he gets jumped on the second floor, near the Arithmancy block, far away from anywhere he’s comfortable or expected to be at, especially not at fifteen-past-one on Tuesday in early March.

 

Someone unseen knocks him against the stone wall and he feels his shoulder crack, but he’s able to curl his head down against his chest so his side gets most of the impact. His head is against the wall but not painfully so, yet, and as long as he can catch his breath he can swing back a violent elbow. He does so and connects with something heavy, hearing a grunt. A fist pounds into his middle, _one-two-three_ times until he knocks his head backwards against his attacker’s presumable face.

Only then does he get the chance to spin around and finally yank his wand out of the pocket of his trousers. He casts the first spell he can think of –Body-Binding, which is ridiculous and not remotely enough, and his blood goes chill when he spots ginger hair.

“Fucking Weasley,” he snarls, looking _up_ at Potter’s nearly useless crony, and Merlin, curse the unfairness that he has to look up. Weasley’s tall, taller than him. That’s a rare thing.

An even rarer thing is for Draco’s spell not to land, and for him to get a fist to the face instead.

Granger managed it once, but he likes to think that’s because he was acting a cocky fool at the time, while she was both shrewd and angry. Right now, he’s just got Weasley’s body pressed _much_ too close to his own.

Draco sends out another curse but Weasley knocks into him roughly before it lands, their upper bodies colliding together. Draco’s head hits the wall again. He sends a leg out blindly, trying to knee Weasley someplace sensitive, but all he manages to do is knock their stomachs together. They both grunt.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Weasley growls out, slamming his hands against Draco’s shoulders, shunting him back against the wall.

“Submitting to a fight with a pillock,” Draco answers, because, obviously. He tosses another binding curse but it coincides with Weasley _disarming him_ not just wandlessly but nonverbally, and that leaves them both a bit shocked. His one hand has Draco’s wand and the other has a fistful of his jumper, and all of it is completely unacceptable.

“Submitting, now that would be interesting,” Weasley says, which offers a bit of distraction for him but not for Draco, who shoves forward and kicks at Weasley’s ankle. He doesn’t go anywhere, but he does grimace.

“Not to you, not bloody likely.”

Draco grapples for Weasley’s arms in an attempt to get his wand back. “What the fucking hell does he even see in you?” Weasley mutters, like no one can hear him even as he flails in Draco’s grip.

“Who?” Draco manages a half-punch to Weasley’s neck and wrenches his wand away with his other hand before launching himself off the wall, trying to crowd Weasley against the other one. Except Weasley’s got tactics of his own. His eyes are unfortunately blue and they track Draco’s movements, and his thick-lipped mouth has a little grin. 

“Harry.”

Draco reels. “What about him?”

“I’ve no idea why he’s so damn obsessed with you.” Weasley shakes his head. “I just can’t fathom it.”

Draco sneers, chuckling just a bit. “Can’t you?” And he lunges forward to kiss— _what in Merlin’s fuck_ —Weasley’s lips. He licks at the seam once before back away, eyes remaining open. “I’m the subject of very many obsessions.” He laughs, backing away with his wand in hand.

“Fuck you.” 

There’s a genuine snarl in Weasley’s voice, which might have been interesting, decidedly so, if Draco found things interesting lately.

“You wish.”

Weasley lunges towards him, which Draco was expecting as a matter of course, so Draco grabs at his clothes and propels both their bodies into an empty Arithmancy classroom. He shoves Ron away from himself and locks the doors while setting a Silencing charm.

“You’re such a clumsy moron,” Draco relents on a sigh, watching Weasley stumble against a chair.

He valiantly tries to right himself. “Yeah? And what are you?”

Draco stalks towards him, step-by-stepping, waiting for Ronald-sodding-Weasley to back up accordingly.

Slowly, he does.

He backs up until he runs into Sinistra’s wide, low, professorial desk. When his hips hit it, his head pops up, and he looks scared.

Draco hums. “What am I?”

Ron blinks. He narrows his eyes slightly, settling down just a bit onto the desk. “Can’t decide.”

“Yeah? Turn around and let me decide for you.”

It’s the easiest thing he’s said and done in weeks, getting someone to bend over for him, getting hard for someone, getting his own blood up in a way he hadn’t thought possible until he was unceremoniously ambushed.

Somehow, Weasley complies.

They’re both purebloods but neither one is wearing robes—Draco’s in his favoured black cashmere jumper and woolen trousers, Weasley’s in a muggle sporting jersey of some sort along with some ridiculous pair of denim bottoms—and Draco wants to shed Weasley of it for many reasons, not simply because he looks idiotic in red.

Everyone looks idiotic in red.

 

Weasley swiftly unbuckles his belt and the fly of his jeans, bending over the lip of the desk even though his boxer-briefs are still on and his jersey is barely rucked up over his hips, and—he has dimples at the bottom of his back, right below his spine. He bends low, sticking his arse high in air, letting his jeans to drop low beneath his knees.

Draco wants to moan, but he won’t. He won’t.

Instead he stalks to Ron and hooks one thumb into the top of his pants, yanking them down without preamble or pretense. He undoes his own flies, to both his black trousers and his button-up boxers, also black, but he doesn’t shove them down much because he’s—distracted.

Instead he spits onto the fingers of his right hand and places his other palm onto the center of Weasley’s back. He shoves down with the flat of his hand, lowering Ron’s body so—so Draco can _see him._

Weasley’s chest is pressed down hard against the desk and his bare _bare_ arse is in the air, Draco’s fist in the center of his back. All Draco can think to do is circle his fingers around Weasley’s— _Ron’s_ —arsehole, though his fingers probably aren’t wet enough, not going to get him there in time. But he hears a hot groan, feels Ron’s chest shudder beneath his other fisted hand.

So he shoves his two fingers in and spits onto Weasley’s crack to offer a bit more slickness.

“R-really, you can’t just do a bloody spell?” Ron grinds out, voice sounding like a knife’s been to it. “Do you have to be so precious about it?”

Draco moves his hand to grasp at Ron’s collarbone, pulling it up, moving his head into Draco’s eye-sight. “I’ll do what I want.” He can almost touch the nape of Weasley’s ginger hair.

“Do it right or I’ll fucking _hex_ you.”

“Doubt that’ll work for you,” Draco snarls, shoving his slick fingers inside just a bit harder than he meant to. Part of him wants to apologize and part of him wants to shove his cock inside Weasley next to his fingers, wants to feel him squirm and hurt. But what he does is stretch his fingers out, opens Weasley up slowly, much more slowly than he planned to, spitting three more times onto his arsecrack. “You’re tight,” Draco grinds out, eyes falling closed.

“Fuck you, I’m ready, hurry up.”

“You’re—”

“Come on, now.”

Draco pulls his spit-slick fingers out of Weasley and has a small moment of mercy. He wordlessly slicks his cock up before shoving gracelessly into him, past his resistance and past _everything._ Weasley grunts, falling forward onto the desk before him, even as Draco doubles-up the slicking charm on his dick. “You’re fine,” Draco reminds him, one hand still near the nape of Weasley’s neck.

“Obviously,” Ron drawls, spitting slightly against the wood of the desk. “Fucking just fuck me, already.”

Draco never once needed permission, but the grinding-out sound of Weasley’s voice goes through his gut and into his cock, and before he knows just what to do, his hips are snapping and he’s fully inside Weasley’s arse, dicking into him without thought or remorse.

His vision goes purple-cloudy for a few moments but he still manages to hear _fuck me fuck me, like that_ until everything comes back into focus.

“Or just shut the fuck up already,” he growls, trapping Weasley’s wrists with one of his own hands as he pistons harder into him. “Think you can—ah—can come untouched?”

Ron drops his head onto the desk. “I ne-never have before,” he whispers, shuddering slightly.

“Maybe you can for me.” Draco smiles to himself and graces Weasley’s right shoulder with a kiss before pounding into him without a care, making their bodies vibrate together almost violently. He decides to turn his shoulder-kiss into a shoulder-bite, decides to change the hand at Ron’s nape to a smacking palm on Ron’s thigh. “Bet you can come,” he goads, “bet you can come for me.” He thrusts in harder, smacks Ron harder, bites onto him until he can’t.

He comes violently with almost no attention paid to Weasley coming or not, only wants to feel warm and satiated and held-onto—but then he hears a wild moan and a shudder from the body beneath him, and they’re both coming almost simultaneously.

“Maybe,” he groans again, spending himself inside of someone, someone warm, “I—”

“Maybe you took me ‘cause you saw me?” Weasley mutters, shoving his hands back against Draco’s hips. “Get—just get off me.”

Draco retreats, eyes blinking open and shut. He swipes at his softening cock with one hand, wandlessly cleaning them both with distracted attention. “No, that’s—not—”

“I still don’t get the obsession,” Weasley continues, as if Draco never spoke. He stoops to pick up his pants and jeans, settling them upon his hips easily.

And only here does Draco finally smirk. “Oh, yes. Yes, you do.”

With a soft snort, Weasley turns to face him. He’s not shirtless—but his freckles still manage to stand out against the flushed-up redness of his pale skin, neck to cheeks. He ducks his head. “No. I don’t.”

Draco ducks in, not caring that his flies are open and his cock is soft between their bodies. “You will,” he promises, ducking forward to kiss Weasley’s— _Ron’s_ —lips.

And maybe he will.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm angry so I'm writing angry things.  
> xx
> 
>  
> 
> Tumblr: musiclily


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